CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER INDEX
CHAPTER 7
THE DOUBLE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
DOPPLEGANGER
William Wilson
Edgar Allan Poe
The Double
Foydor Dostoevsky
Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde
Robert Louis Stephenson
THEORY
Dada Manifesto
Hugo Ball, 1916
Tristan Tzara, 1918
Surrealist Manifesto
Andre Breton, 1924
Andre Breton, 1925
Andre Breton, 1934
POETRY
My God
Nah Nah Nah
Themes of the Unknown
The Abstract & the Ambiguous
Drunken
RELIGION
Profits of Religion
Upton Sinclair
Young Goodman Brown
Nathaniel Hawthorne
The Blithedale Romance
Nathaniel Hawthorne
LOUISMARLOWE.COM
Chapter VI
At eight o'clock next morning Mr. Golyadkin woke up in his
bed. At once all the extraordinary incidents of the previous
day and the wild, incredible night, with all its almost
impossible adventures, presented themselves to his
imagination and memory with terrifying vividness. Such
intense, diabolical malice on the part of his enemies, and,
above all, the final proof of that malice, froze Mr.
Golyadkin's heart. But at the same time it was all so strange,
incomprehensible, wild, it seemed so impossible, that it was
really hard to credit the whole business; Mr. Golyadkin was,
indeed, ready to admit himself that it was all an incredible
delusion, a passing aberration of the fancy, a darkening of the
mind, if he had not fortunately known by bitter experience to
what lengths spite will sometimes carry any one, what a pitch
of ferocity an enemy may reach when he is bent on revenging
his honour and prestige. Besides, Mr. Golyadkin's exhausted
limbs, his heavy head, his aching back, and the malignant
cold in his head bore vivid witness to the probability of his
expedition of the previous night and upheld the reality of it,
and to some extent of all that had happened during that
expedition. And, indeed, Mr. Golyadkin had known long,
long before that something was being got up among them,
that there was some one else with them. But after all,
thinking it over thoroughly, he made up his mind to keep
quiet, to submit and not to protest for the time.
"They are simply plotting to frighten me, perhaps, and
when they see that I don't mind, that I make no protest, but
keep perfectly quiet and put up with it meekly, they'll give it
up, they'll give it up of themselves, give it up of their own
accord."
Such, then, were the thoughts in the mind of Mr.
Golyadkin as, stretching in his bed, trying to rest his
exhausted limbs, he waited for Petrushka to come into his
room as usual . . . He waited for a full quarter of an hour. He
heard the lazy scamp fiddling about with the samovar behind
the screen, and yet he could not bring himself to call him.
We may say more: Mr. Golyadkin was a little afraid of
confronting Petrushka.
"Why, goodness knows," he thought, "goodness knows
how that rascal looks at it all. He keeps on saying nothing,
but he has his own ideas."
At last the door creaked and Petrushka came in with a tray
in his hands. Mr. Golyadkin stole a timid glance at him,
impatiently waiting to see what would happen, waiting to see
whether he would not say something about a certain
circumstance. But Petrushka said nothing; he was, on the
contrary, more silent, more glum and ill-humoured than
usual; he looked askance from under his brows at everything;
altogether it was evident that he was very much put out about
something; he did not even once glance at his master, which,
by the way, rather piqued the latter. Setting all he had
brought on the table, he turned and went out of the room
without a word.
"He knows, he knows, he knows all about it, the
scoundrel!" Mr. Golyadkin grumbled to himself as he took
his tea. Yet out hero did not address a single question to his
servant, though Petrushka came into his room several times
afterwards on various errands. Mr. Golyadkin was in great
trepidation of spirit. He dreaded going to the office. He had
a strong presentiment that there he would find something that
would not be "just so."
"You may be sure," he thought, "that as soon as you go
you will light upon something! Isn't it better to endure in
patience? Isn't it better to wait a bit now? Let them do what
they like there; but I'd better stay here a bit today, recover my
strength, get better, and think over the whole affair more
thoroughly, then afterwards I could seize the right moment,
fall upon them like snow from the sky, and get off scot free
myself."
Reasoning like this, Mr. Golyadkin smoked pipe after
pipe; time was flying. It was already nearly half-past nine.
"Why, it's half-past nine already," thought Mr. Golyadkin;
"it's late for me to make my appearance. Besides, I'm ill, of
course I'm ill, I'm certainly ill; who denies it? What's the
matter with me? If they send to make inquiries, let the
executive clerk come; and, indeed, what is the mater with me
really? Mr back aches, I have a cough, and a cold in my
head; and, in fact, it's out of the question for me to go out,
utterly out of the question in such weather. I might be taken
ill and, very likely, die; nowadays especially the death-rate
is so high . . ."
With such reasoning Mr. Golyadkin succeeded at last in
setting his conscience at rest, and defended himself against
the reprimands he expected from Andrey Filippovitch for
neglect of his duty. As a rule in such cases our hero was
particularly fond of justifying himself in his own eyes with
all sorts of irrefutable arguments, and so completely setting
his conscience at rest. And so now, having completely
soothed his conscience, he took up his pipe, filled it, and had
no sooner settled down comfortably to smoke, when he
jumped up quickly from the sofa, flung away the pipe,
briskly washed, shaved, and brushed his hair, got into his
uniform and so on, snatched up some papers, and flew to the
office.
Mr. Golyadkin went into his department timidly, in
quivering expectation of something unpleasant - an
expectation which was none the less disagreeable for being
vague and unconscious; he sat timidly down in his invariable
place next the head clerk, Anton Antonovitch Syetotchkin.
Without looking at anything or allowing his attention to be
distracted, he plunged into the contents of the papers that lay
before him. He made up his mind and vowed to himself to
avoid, as far as possible, anything provocative, anything that
might compromise him, such as indiscreet questions, jests, or
unseemly allusions to any incidents of the previous evening;
he made up his mind also to abstain from the usual
interchange of civilities with his colleagues, such as inquiries
after health and such like. But evidently it was impossible,
out of the question, to keep to this. Anxiety and uneasiness
in regard to anything near him that was annoying always
worried him far more than the annoyance itself. And that
was why, in spite of his inward vows to refrain from entering
into anything, whatever happened, and to keep aloof from
everything, Mr. Golyadkin from time to time, on the sly,
very, very quietly, raised his head and stealthily looked about
him to right and to left, peeped at the countenances of his
colleagues, and tried to gather whether there were not
something new and particular in them referring to himself
and with sinister motives concealed from him. He assumed
that there must be a connection between all that had
happened yesterday and all that surrounded him now. At
last, in his misery, he began to long for something - goodness
knows what - to happen to put an end to it - even some
calamity - he did not care. At this point destiny caught Mr.
Golyadkin: he had hardly felt this desire when his doubts
were solved in the strange and most unexpected manner.
The door leading from the next room suddenly gave a soft
and timid creak, as though to indicate that the person about
to enter was a very unimportant one, and a figure, very
familiar to Mr. Golyadkin, stood shyly before the very table
at which our hero was seated. The latter did not raise his
head - no, he only stole a glance at him, the tiniest glance;
but he knew all, he understood all, to every detail. He grew
hot with shame, and buried his devoted head in his papers
with precisely the same object with which the ostrich,
pursued by hunters, hides his head in the burning sand. The
new arrival bowed to Andrey Filippovitch, and thereupon he
heard a voice speaking in the regulation tone of
condescending tone of politeness with which all persons in
authority address their subordinates in public offices.
"Take a seat here." said Andrey Filippovitch, motioning
the newcomer to Anton Antonovitch's table. "Here, opposite
Mr. Golyadkin, and we'll soon give you something to do."
Andrey Filippovitch ended by making a rapid gesture that
decorously admonished the newcomer of his duty, and then
he immediately became engrossed in the study of the papers
that lay in a heap before him.
Mr. Golyadkin lifted his eyes at last, and that he did not
fall into a swoon was simply because he had foreseen it all
from the first, that he had been forewarned from the first,
guessing in his soul who the stranger was. Mr. Golyadkin's
first movement was to look quickly about him, to see
whether there were any whispering, any office joke being
cracked on the subject, whether any one's face was agape
with wonder, whether, indeed, some one had not fallen under
the table from terror. But to his intense astonishment there
was no sign of anything of the sort. The behaviour of his
colleagues and companions surprised him. It seemed
contrary to the dictates of common sense. Mr. Golyadkin
was positively scared at this extraordinary reticent. The fact
spoke for itself; it was a strange, horrible, uncanny thing. It
was enough to rouse any one. All this, of course, only passed
rapidly through Mr. Golyadkin's mind. He felt as though he
were burning in a slow fire. And, indeed, there was enough
to make him. The figure that was sitting opposite Mr.
Golyadkin now was his terror, was his shame, was him
nightmare of the evening before; in short, was Mr. Golyadkin
himself, not the Mr. Golyadkin who was sitting now in his
chair with his mouth wide open and his pen petrified in his
hand, not the one who acred as assistant to his chief, not the
one who liked to efface himself and slink away in the crowd,
not the one whose deportment plainly said, "Don't touch me
and I won't touch you," or, "Don't interfere with me, you see
I'm not touching you"; no, this was another Mr. Golyadkin,
quite different, yet at the same time, exactly like the first -
the same height, the same figure, the same clothes, the same
baldness; in fact, nothing, absolutely nothing, was lacking to
complete the likeness, so that if one were to set them side by
side, nobody, absolutely nobody, could have undertaken to
distinguish which was the real Mr. Golyadkin and which was
the new one, which was the original and which was the copy.
Our hero was - if the comparison can be made - in the
position of a man upon whom some practical joker has
stealthily, by way of jest, turned a burning glass.
"What does it mean? Is it a dream?" he wondered. "Is it
reality or the continuation of what happened yesterday? And
besides, by what right is this all being done? Who
sanctioned such a clerk, who authorized this? Am I asleep,
am I in a waking dream?"
Mr. Golyadkin tried pinching himself, even tried to screw
up his courage to pinch some one else . . . No, it was not a
dream and that was all about it. Mr. Golyadkin felt that the
sweat was trickling down him in big drops; he felt that what
was happening to him was something incredible, unheard of,
and for that very reason was, to complete his misery, utterly
unseemly, for Mr. Golyadkin realized and felt how
disadvantageous it was to be the first example of such a
burlesque adventure. He even began to doubt his own
existence, and though he was prepared for anything and had
been longing for his doubts to be settled in any way
whatever, yet the actual reality was startling in its
unexpectedness. His misery was poignant and
overwhelming. At times he lost all power of thought and
memory. Coming to himself after such a moment, he noticed
that he was mechanically and unconsciously moving the pen
over the paper. Mistrustful of himself, he began going over
what he had written - and could make nothing of it. At last
the other Mr. Golyadkin, who had been sitting discreetly and
decorously at the table, got up and disappeared through the
door into the other room. Mr. Golyadkin looked around -
everything was quiet; he heard nothing but the scratching of
pens, the rustle of turning over pages, and conversation in the
corners furthest from Andrey Filippovitch's seat. Mr.
Golyadkin looked at Anton Antonovitch, and as, in all
probability, our hero's countenance fully reflected his real
condition and harmonized with the whole position, and was
consequently, from one point of view, very remarkable,
good-natured Anton Antonovitch, laying aside his pen,
inquired after his health with marked sympathy.
"I'm very well, thank God, Anton Antonovitch," said Mr.
Golyadkin, stammering. "I am perfectly well, Anton
Antonovitch. I am all right now, Anton Antonovitch," he
added uncertainly, not yet fully trusting Anton Antonovitch,
whose name he had mentioned so often.
"I fancied you were not quite well: though that's not to be
wondered at; no, indeed! Nowadays especially there's such
a lot of illness going about. Do you know . . ."
"Yes, Anton Antonovitch, I know there is such a lot of
illness . . . I did not mean that, Anton Antonovitch," Mr.
Golyadkin went on, looking intently at Anton Antonovitch.
"You see, Anton Antonovitch, I don't even know how you,
that is, I mean to say, how to approach this matter, Anton
Antonovitch. . . ."
"How so? I really . . . do you know . . . I must confess I
don't quite understand; you must . . . you must explain, you
know, in what way you are in difficulties," said Anton
Antonovitch, beginning to be in difficulties himself, seeing
that there were actually tears in Mr. Golyadkin's eyes.
"Really, Anton Antonovitch . . . I . . . here . . . there's a
clerk here, Anton Antonovitch . . ."
"Well! I don't understand now."
"I mean to say, Anton Antonovitch, there's a new clerk
here."
"Yes, there is; a namesake of yours."
"What?" cried Mr. Golyadkin.
"I say a namesake of yours; his name's Golyadkin too.
Isn't he a brother of yours?"
"No, Anton Antonovitch, I . . ."
"H'm! you don't say so! Why, I thought he must be a
relation of yours. Do you know, there's a sort of family
likeness."
Mr. Golyadkin was petrified with astonishment, and for
the moment he could not speak. To treat so lightly such a
horrible, unheard-of thing, a thing undeniably rare and
curious in its way, a thing which would have amazed even an
unconcerned spectator, to talk of a family resemblance when
he could see himself as in a looking-glass!
"Do you know, Yakov Petrovitch, what I advise you to
do?" Anton Antonovitch went on. "Go and consult a doctor.
Do you know, you look somehow quite unwell. You eyes
look peculiar . . . you know, there's a peculiar expression in
them."
"No, Anton Antonovitch, I feel, of course . . . that is, I
keep wanting to ask about this clerk."
"Well?"
"That is, have not you noticed, Anton Antonovitch,
something peculiar about him, something very marked?"
"That is . . . ?"
"That is, I mean, Anton Antonovitch, a striking likeness
with somebody, for instance; with me, for instance? You
spoke just now, you see, Anton Antonovitch, of a family
likeness. You let slip the remark. . . . You know there really
are sometimes twins exactly alike, like two drops of water, so
that they can't be told apart. Well, it's that that I mean."
"To be sure," said Anton Antonovitch, after a moment's
thought, speaking as though he were struck by the fact for the
first time: "yes, indeed! You are right, there is a striking
likeness, and you are quite right in what you say. You really
might be mistaken for one another," he went on, opening his
eyes wider and wider; "and, do you know, Yakov Petrovitch,
it's positively a marvellous likeness, fantastic, in fact, as the
saying is; that is, just as you . . . Have you observed, Yakov
Petrovitch? I wanted to ask you to explain it; yes, I must
confess I didn't take particular notice at first. It's wonderful,
it's really wonderful! And, you know, you are not a native of
these parts, are you, Yakov Petrovitch?"
"No."
"He is not from these parts, you know, either. Perhaps he
comes from the same part of the country as you do. Where,
may I make bold to inquire, did your mother live for the most
part?"
"You said . . . you say, Anton Antonovitch, that he is not
a native of these parts?"
"No, he is not. And indeed how strange it is!" continued
the talkative Anton Antonovitch, for whom it was a genuine
treat to gossip. "It may well arouse curiosity; and yet, you
know, you might pass him by, brush against him, without
noticing anything. But you mustn't be upset about it. It's a
thing that does happen. Do you know, the same thing, I must
tell you, happened to my aunt on my mother's side; she saw
her own double before her death . . ."
"No, I - excuse me for interrupting you, Anton
Antonovitch - I wanted to find out, Anton Antonovitch, how
that clerk . . . that is, on what footing is he here?"
"In the place of Semyon Ivanovitch, to fill the vacancy left
by his death; the post was vacant, so he was appointed. Do
you know, I'm told poor Semyon Ivanovitch left three
children, all tiny dots. The widow fell at the feet of his
Excellency. They do say she's hiding something; she's got a
bit of money, but she's hiding it."
"No, Anton Antonovitch, I was still referring to that
circumstance."
"You mean . . .? To be sure! But why are you so
interested in that? I tell you not to upset yourself. All this is
temporary to some extent. Why, after all, you know, you
have nothing to do with it. So it has been ordained by God
Almighty, it's His will, and it is sinful repining. His wisdom
is apparent in it. And as far as I can make out, Yakov
Petrovitch, you are not to blame in any way. There are all
sorts of strange things in the world! Mother Nature is liberal
with her gifts, and you are not called upon to answer for it,
you won't be responsible. Here, for instance, you have heard,
I expect, of those - what's their name? - oh, the Siamese
twins who are joined together at the back, live and eat and
sleep together. I'm told they get a lot of money."
"Allow me, Anton Antonovitch . . ."
"I understand, I understand! Yes! But what of it? It's no
matter, I tell you, ad far as I can see there's nothing for you
to upset yourself about. After all, he's a clerk - as a clerk he
seems to be a capable man. He says his name is Golyadkin,
that he's not a native of this district, and that he's a titular
councillor. He had a personal interview with his
Excellency."
"And how did his Excellency . . .?"
"It was all right; I am told he gave a satisfactory account
of himself, gave his reasons, said, 'It's like this, your
Excellency,' and that he was without means and anxious to
enter the service, and would be particularly flattered to be
serving under his Excellency . . . all that was proper, you
know; he expressed himself neatly. He must be a sensible
man. But of course he came with a recommendation; he
couldn't have got in without that . . ."
"Oh, from whom . . . that is, I mean, who is it has had a
hand in this shameful business?"
"Yes, a good recommendation, I'm told; his Excellency,
I'm told laughed with Andrey Filippovitch."
"Laughed with Andrey Filippovitch?"
"Yes, he only just smiled and said that it was all right, and
that he had nothing against it, so long as he did his duty . . ."
"Well, and what more? You relieve me to some extent,
Anton Antonovitch; go on, I entreat you."
"Excuse me, I must tell you again . . . Well, then, come,
it's nothing, it's a very simple matter; you mustn't upset
yourself, I tell you, and there's nothing suspicious about it. .
. ."
"No. I . . . that is, Anton Antonovitch, I want to ask you,
didn't his Excellency say anything more . . .about me, for
instance?"
"Well! To be sure! No, nothing of the sort; you can set
your mind quite at rest. You know it is, of course, a rather
striking circumstance, and at first . . .why, here, I, for
instance, I scarcely noticed it. I really don't know why I
didn't notice it till you mentioned it. But you can set your
mind at rest entirely. He said nothing particular, absolutely
nothing," added good-natured Anton Antonovitch, getting up
from his chair.
"So then, Anton, Antonovitch, I . . ."
"Oh, you must excuse me. Here I've been gossiping about
these trivial matters, and I've business that is important and
urgent. I must inquire about it."
"Anton Antonovitch!" Andrey Filippovitch's voice
sounded, summoning him politely, "his Excellency has been
asking for you."
"This minute, I'm coming this minute, Andrey
Filippovitch." And Anton Antonovitch, taking a pile of
papers, flew off first to Andrey Filippovitch and then into his
Excellency's room.
"Then what is the meaning of it?" thought Mr. Golyadkin.
"Is there some sort of game going on? So the wind's in that
quarter now . . . That's just as well; so things have taken a
much pleasanter turn," our hero said to himself, rubbing his
hands, and so delighted that he scarcely knew where he was.
"So our position is an ordinary thing. So it turns out to be all
nonsense, it comes to nothing at all. No one has done
anything really, and they are not budging, the rascals, they
are sitting busy over their work; that's splendid, splendid! I
like the good-natured fellow, I've always liked him, and I'm
always ready to respect him . . . though it must be said one
doesn't know what to think; this Anton Antonovitch . . . I'm
afraid to trust him; his hair's grey, and he's getting shaky. It's
an immense and glorious thing that his Excellency said
nothing, and let it pass! It's a good thing! I approve! Only
why does Andrey Filippovitch interfere with his grins?
What's he got to do with it? The old rogue. Always on my
track, always, like a black cat, on the watch to run across a
man's path, always thwarting and annoying a man, always
annoying and thwarting a man . . ."
Mr. Golyadkin looked around him again, and again his
hopes revived. Yet he felt that he was troubled by one
remote idea, an unpleasant idea. It even occurred to him that
he might try somehow to make up to the clerks, to be the first
in the field even (perhaps when leaving the office or going up
to them as though about his work), to drop a hint in the
course of conversation, saying, "This is how it is, what a
striking likeness, gentlemen, a strange circumstance, a
burlesque farce!" - that is, treat it all lightly, and in this way
sound the depth of the danger. "Devils breed in still waters,"
our hero concluded inwardly.
Mr. Golyadkin, however, only contemplated this; he
thought better of it in time. He realized that this would be
going too far. "That's your temperament," he said to himself,
tapping himself lightly on the forehead; "as soon as you gain
anything you are delighted! You're a simple soul! No, you
and I had better be patient, Yakov Petrovitch; let us wait and
be patient!"
Nevertheless, as we have mentioned already, Mr.
Golyadkin was buoyed up with the most confident hopes,
feeling as though he had risen from the dead.
"No matter," he thought, "it's as though a hundred tons had
been lifted off my chest! Here is a circumstance, to be sure!
The box has been opened by the lid. Krylov is right, a clever
chap, a rogue, that Krylov, and a great fable-write! And as
for him, let him work in the office, and good luck to him so
long as he doesn't meddle or interfere with any one; let him
work in the office - I consent and approve!"
Meanwhile the hours were passing, flying by, and before
he noticed the time it struck four. The office was closed.
Andrey Filippovitch took his hat, and all followed his
example in due course. Mr. Golyadkin dawdled a little on
purpose, long enough to be the last to go out when all the
others had gone their several ways. Going out from the street
he felt as though he were in Paradise, so that he even felt
inclined to go a longer way round, and to walk along the
Nevsky Prospect.
"To be sure this is destiny," thought our hero, "this
unexpected turn in affairs. And the weather's more cheerful,
and the frost and the little sledges. And the frost suits the
Russian, the Russian gets on capitally with the frost. I like
the Russian. And the dear little snow, and the first few flakes
in autumn; the sportsman would say, 'It would be nice to go
shooting hares in the first snow.' Well, there, it doesn't
matter."
This was how Mr. Golyadkin's enthusiasm found
expression. Yet something was fretting in his brain, not
exactly melancholy, but at times he had such a gnawing at his
heart that he did not know how to find relief.
"Let us wait for the day, though, and then we shall rejoice.
And, after all, you know, what does it matter? Come, let us
think it over, let us look at it. Come, let us consider it, my
young friend, let us consider it. Why, a man's exactly like
you in the first place, absolutely the same. Well, what is
there in that? If there is such a man, why should I weep over
it? What is it to me? I stand aside, I whistle to myself, and
that's all! That's what I laid myself open to, and that's all
about it! Let him work in the office! Well, it's strange and
marvellous, they say, that the Siamese twins . . . But why
bring in Siamese twins? They are twins, of course, but even
great men, you know, sometimes look queer creatures. In
fact, we know from history that the famous Suvorov used to
crow like a cock . . . But there, he did all that with political
motives; and he was a great general . . .but what are generals,
after all? But I keep myself to myself, that's all, and I don't
care about any one else, and, secure in my innocence, I scorn
my enemies. I am not one to intrigue, and I'm proud of it.
Gentle, straightforward, neat and nice, meek and mild."
All at once Mr. Golyadkin broke off, his tongue failed him
and he began trembling like a leaf; he even closed his eyes
for a minute. Hoping, however, that the object of his terror
was only an illusion, he opened his eyes at last and stole a
timid glance to the right. No, it was not an illusion! . . . His
acquaintance of that morning was tripping along by his side,
smiling, peeping into his face, and apparently seeking an
opportunity to begin a conversation with him. The
conversation was not begun, however. They both walked
like this for about fifty paces. All Mr. Golyadkin's efforts
were concentrated on muffling himself up, hiding himself in
his coat and pulling his hat down as far as possible over his
eyes. To complete his mortification, his companion's coat
and hat looked as though they had been taken off Mr.
Golyadkin himself.
"Sir," our hero articulated at last, trying to speak almost in
a whisper, and not looking at his companion, "we are going
different ways, I believe . . . I am convinced of it, in fact," he
said, after a pause. "I am convinced, indeed, that you quite
understand me," he added, rather severely, in conclusion.
"I could have wished . . ." his companion pronounced at
last, "I could have wished . . . no doubt you will be
magnanimous and pardon me . . . I don't know to whom to
address myself here . . . my circumstances . . . I trust you will
pardon my intrusiveness. I fancied, indeed, that, moved by
compassion, you showed some interest in me this morning.
On my side, I felt drawn to you from the first moment. I . .
."
At this point Mr. Golyadkin inwardly wished that his
companion might sink into the earth.
"If I might venture to hope that you would accord me an
indulgent hearing, Yakov Petrovitch . . ."
"We - here, we - we . . . you had better come home with
me," answered Mr. Golyadkin. "We will cross now to the
other side of the Nevsky Prospect, it will be more convenient
for us there, and then by the little back street . . . we'd better
go by the back street."
"Very well, by all means let us go by the back street," our
hero's meek companion responded timidly, suggesting by the
tone of his reply that it was not for him to choose, and that in
his position he was quite prepared to accept the back street.
As for Mr. Golyadkin, he was utterly unable to grasp what
was happening to him. He could not believe in himself. He
could not get over his amazement.